


made of paper and glue

by noblealice



Category: Smallville
Genre: F/M, Journalism, Light Angst, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-08
Updated: 2009-06-08
Packaged: 2019-06-28 02:03:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15697890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblealice/pseuds/noblealice
Summary: Set mid Season 8. Written for the 12_days_of_clois ficathon prompt: library.She sighs, still afraid to look him in the eyes and knows that he could fill a whole floor with his compassion, his understanding. She hates him for that while she loves him for that. She feels thin like newsprint that is leaden with too much ink. “That’s the problem with you Clark; you’re too busy worrying about the paint job to notice the rotten wood underneath.” She taps her pen against her teeth, knowing how he hates it.





	made of paper and glue

Lois was grumbling again, despite getting a full night’s worth of sleep. The grumbling was probably due in part to yet another person mistaking her and Clark as a couple. This angered her for a couple reasons but most importantly, it made her feel hope when she ought to squash any feelings toward him.  
  
“Ugh, I am so sick of this stupid power outage.”  
  
Metropolis was dealing with some electricity supply issues after a meteor freak had blasted into the city’s hydro-electric plant the week before. The Red-Blue Blur had showed up to finally put a stop to the guy, but it had been too late – the damage was done and now the city was operating under a type of pseudo-curfew. All emergency power and generators had been rerouted to the hospitals and other critical buildings, which left the citizenry without street lights after dark, air conditioning during the day and grocery stores selling out tubs of ice cream.  
  
It also left two rising reporters from the Daily Planet without computers. Which put Lois in a place she wasn’t particularly too fond of – Metropolis’ Public Library.  
  
The library is old and imposing and despite the large windows, it’s still somewhat dark without the florescent lights. However, since it’s above ground, they can do most of their work here during the day while they can see. It reminds her a bit of depressing institutions and a school she once dropped out of. There is so much history here that it was daunting; no one could ever learn it all or make a dent. In the end, who will remember Lois Lane when she’s surrounded by so much accomplishment?  
  
She shuffles her papers, uncomfortable when surrounded by so much dead paper. By so many events that people thought worth recording. She is used to seeing her words line the waste bin and it’s unusual to words treated with such reverence.  
  
“Technically, it’s just a brownout, not a total blackout.”  
  
“Who cares, this city is so  _boring_  during the day.” She needs the constant overflow of information to distract her of thoughts of Clark. If she is not careful she will delude herself into believing he could ever be hers.  
  
She turns to look away from him, staring at rows upon rows of shelves, wondering how much space she could fill, how many chapters she will merit.  
  
“Astrologers say that Metropolis has never had such a good view of the stars thanks to the lack of light pollution.”   
  
“Big deal, the recent lack of light pollution has also meant that personal sightings of the Red-Blue-Blur are up about fifteen percent! But because none of the city’s surveillance cameras are working, it’s all eyewitness reports and conjecture. Without an official statement or picture, there’s no way Tess will let me write an article on it.”  
  
“Don’t you think we should be spending our time on more important things?”  
  
She sighs, still afraid to look him in the eyes and knows that he could fill a whole floor with his compassion, his understanding. She hates him for that while she loves him for that. She feels thin like newsprint that is leaden with too much ink. “That’s the problem with you Clark; you’re too busy worrying about the paint job to notice the rotten wood underneath.” She taps her pen against her teeth, knowing how he hates it.  
  
“I just think we should work on the articles Tess actually asked us to submit.”  
  
“Look, I get that the Red-Blue-Blur is not your thing, but writing about some kid being caught smoking in his mom’s car is not gonna happen.” She wants to leave the library and go somewhere where the trees surrounding her will share her breath and shade her face.  
  
(For the first time in a long time she doesn’t wish to go to Smallville, she wants to be surrounded by tall forests that stretch to the sky and obscure the flat horizon.)  
  
“Can we at least look into why it’s taking the power company’s so long to get back on track?”  
  
“Wow, Lois being impatient, what a surprise.”  
  
“Har har.” She rolls her eyes at him with minimal effort and this pantomime of theirs feels forced. She misses when their banter had a bite to it.  
  
“Seriously, I thought you said this power drain would give the Planet’s circulation numbers a boost.”  
  
“That was before I realised I wouldn’t have spell check to help me with my articles.”  
  
The internet connection in the library is slow and a distracting study group has begun two tables away from them. She wants to walk up to the kids; warn them to enjoy youth while they can. To tell them to get the most out of life when it’s simple, when it’s okay to ask for help and when other people can take care of you without shame.  
  
“C’mon, weren’t you the one yelling about how the web is slowly killing print media and you would rejoice if all internet blogs randomly crashed?”  
  
“For the record, I was kinda drunk and arguing with Brad – who we both know brings out the confrontational side of anyone. I’m pretty sure I’ve even seen  _you_  roll your eyes at him, which is the normal person equivalent of wishing him dead. He’s just so  _smug_.” The talking at the other table has gotten louder and it only fuels her frustration. While she’s never been comfortable with hushed whispers (unless they were from an unsuspecting source), she at least gives the building its proper respect.  
  
“I could not hear another syllable about the death of the newspaper or how many hits his blog gets. He would not stop blabbing about ad revenue or how putting news on the net will change the face of journalism and transform the world and probably save puppies and cure cancer the way he was going on about it.” Her brash voice has risen with her annoyance and she’s sure someone is going to come censor her soon, but it’s worth it to hear Clark laugh. He doesn’t laugh much anymore.  
  
“Seriously, he makes me want to bash his head against a wall.”  
  
At the dubious look on Clark’s face, she continued. “The worst part is that he’s probably right.” At this point in her diatribe, Clark tries to interrupt her, but she’s got a full engine of steam going and cannot be stopped.  
  
“No, Clark. I’ve resigned myself that I’m part of a dying media. I’ll probably be replaced one day by some loser who never leaves his basement.”  
  
“Don’t think like that Lois, you don’t give yourself enough credit.” Lois did something then that nearly unraveled her cool demeanour, she looked up at Clark just in time to catch him looking back at her. Suddenly she felt awkward under his intense scrutiny. He looked at her like he could see through to her soul. She broke first and looked down at her sheets of paper.  
  
She had to give herself a mental pep talk before she could meet his gaze again.  _Do not go there. Stop seeing things that don’t exist and don’t get your hopes up, Lane. You put yourself out there once and now it’s time to move on._  
  
“Well, we’ll see.”  
  
“You have today as your proof. Look where we are. Not surrounded by video screens but by rows upon rows of dusty books.”  
  
And it’s true; they are sitting in a building of paper and glue, records lining the walls like kindling, ready to crumble into ash at the slightest provocation.  
  
She thinks of taking a match to the whole building.  
  
There is a name carved into the oak of the desk she sits at and she wonders why someone thought it would matter, what they felt that made them want to record this name for as long as the wood lasts. She thinks of carving her own name and wonders how long this wood will last, how long this city will last when every day there are people out there who wish to do it harm. She thinks she is not worthy of such remembrance and suddenly she wishes for her dark desk in the Daily Planet where it was easier to breathe when not surrounded by so many stories that all sound like reminders of what she will never do.  
  
She feels thin, like she is made only of paper and glue, her heart chopped up and stacked neatly to go up in flames like the last vestige of a dying era.  
  
She wants to carve Clark’s name in the desk, wants someone to wonder what she was feeling when they look at it in the future.  
  
“I  _do_  love seeing my name in print and I love the smell of a freshly printed paper and the feeling of it in your hands.”  
  
“Also, you can’t exactly frame a screenshot to hang on your wall.” Clark replies, a rare smile warming his lips.  
  
“Or place it in your desk.” She teases.


End file.
